BY THOMAS HARDY
If but some vengeful god would call to meFrom up the sky, and laugh: “Thou suffering thing,Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,That thy love’s loss is my hate’s profiting!”Then would I bear it, clench myself, and die,Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than IHad willed and meted me the tears I shed.But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?—Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain,And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan. . . .These purblind Doomsters had as readily strownBlisses about my pilgrimage as pain.